


Now or Never

by istia



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Angst, Gen, POV George Cowley, Zine: Discovered in a Letterbox 19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-05
Updated: 2001-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:11:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/istia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cowley faces a tough decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now or Never

**Author's Note:**

> This story came out of a challenge with friends to write a story about a "serious choice" with a writing time-limit of one hour. And it feels strange to put a "Gen" label on it! Because, of course, being me, there is implied slash, though it's off-screen here.

Her frock was pink poplin with a white Peter Pan collar and small, puff sleeves. The intricate smocking on the front, picked out in green, blue, and yellow threads, testified to the care that had gone into the making of the garment. While it had probably been pristine when donned that morning, the dress looked grubby now, and crumpled. Her hand was still clenched in the generous fall of material that flared below the smocking across her flat chest. The hand had been clenched like that for almost thirty minutes. The fingers would surely be getting cramped.

The hand was tiny. Fine-pored brown skin covered small bones scarcely discernible within a plumpness that softened the sharp mounds of knuckles that, even in its clenched state, narrowly escaped being dimpled. On the third finger was a cheap ring, a gold-toned band with a small piece of faceted red glass set in clumsy prongs. The tiny rings adorning her ears, however, peeping below black plaits and gleaming against the cafe au lait skin, were likely gold.

Her shoes were black patent, shined to within an inch of their well-worn lives. White socks with lace on the turned-down cuffs complemented the blackness of the dress shoes. The socks, like the dress, had undoubtedly been crisply clean that morning. They were dirty, now; and stained. Just barely perceptible on the plump, brown legs were tell-tale streaks of moisture that had run from under the pink skirt down the bare legs to dampen the pretty little socks.

Her silence, and her stillness, were unnatural. Enforced. Grey duct tape stretched across her mouth like an obscene scar mutilating the round face, obliterating a third of it from view. Above the tape, liquid dark eyes looked helplessly, yet hopefully, about. More streaks stained her cheeks, but she had stopped crying; she was probably simply doing her best just to keep breathing. George Cowley could see her nostrils flare in the involuntary reflex of drawing in sufficient oxygen to keep the body functioning in a situation of stress, at a time when it needed more oxygen yet was finding it harder than normal to satisfy that need.

She had been on her feet for nigh on three-quarters of an hour, but there was no chance of her falling, no matter how tired she was. Her left arm was held in a firm grip by the man who had her jammed against his body. She was posed off-centre, her left arm dragged high to a place of comfort for six-foot Owens, her left shoulder twisted up and around, more of her weight resting on her right foot than the left as her body leaned in that direction. Her other hand clutched her dress unceasingly, as though it were her mother's hand itself she could hold, rather than merely the fruit of her mother's caring. A substitute for her mother that was, perhaps, giving her the strength to endure her ordeal.

She was a forbiddingly brave lass. Cowley felt humble as he witnessed her stoicness in the face of terror. Owens had given her a hard shake early on, and undoubtedly some harsh warnings, but she stood as still as she could now, a bright, pink swathe rammed back against his dark-clad legs, balancing as well as she could, trembling uncontrollably but not making any voluntary movements, doing what little she could not to exacerbate the situation further, not to enrage the mad dog who held her in its jaws. Perhaps that, too, was her mother's teaching: how not to panic if a dog attacked her. Or perhaps she was tapping into a well of innate strength within her own tiny form that lay coiled ready inside her spirit to unfold itself over the years to help her mature into a strong, fine woman.

Five months shy of her sixth birthday, she was in her second term at the infant school on Thomas Road in Limehouse. This bright Friday morning in April was a day of unprecedented excitement in the lives of the children of the nearby estates in this less than salubrious area. A royal visit had been planned as part of a campaign to elicit public awareness of, and contributions of monetary support for, the less-endowed schools in the city. Polished shoes and lacy socks undoubtedly adorned more than one pair of feet on this momentous day. It was a day for "Sunday best" in a day and age when "Sunday best" was generally an anachronism. Today, the children of underprivilege were to meet a scion of privilege, an event they were sure never to forget.

Ah, well.

The royal cousin, her lady-in-waiting, and two security agents had arrived on schedule at 11 a.m., a corps of five reporters and cameramen following them into the building. The six-person band of fanatics who belonged to a group calling itself the Free Wales Brigade had arrived a quarter of an hour later. Within minutes, working with practised efficiency and despatch, they had disabled one of the agents, disarmed the other, and hustled all of the adults in the building--excepting only two teachers left to handle the mass of children gathered in the school's gymnasium--into a lower-floor bunker. With the remaining pair of teachers and all the children locked in the gymnasium, the spokeswoman for the group had communicated its demands: release three of their incarcerated members, including their erstwhile leader, and allow all of them to go free, or the bunker, containing some twenty-six commoners and one distant--but popular and relatively prominent--royal, would be blown up.

A pre-war brick monstrosity, the school on Thomas Road had a bunker from the war still intact in its cellar, now used to house cabinets full of old files. Windowless, dug deeply into the ground, with a heavy steel door and the only approach to it a single staircase from the first floor, it was easily defended. The terrorists must have believed they would have no trouble pressing their demands, and, indeed, it was only a lucky shot from a police marksman that had winged the spokeswoman and sent her crashing into one of the men. Lucky? Ach, that judgement would be debated for a good long time after this incident was concluded.

The reports they had received from the Met personnel on scene of the events following the initial shot were confused, to say the least. The crucial fact, however, was that the brief ensuing gun battle resulting in the capture or elimination of most of the group had culminated in a lone child's having been taken from the gymnasium. A random choice, presumably. Perhaps she had been the nearest to the door when Owens had plunged through it; or, perhaps, her bright frock had simply caught his eye.

CI5 had been called to sort out the bungle when the situation had become a stand-off. Cowley's sight of the child was through the powerful Mark 3 telescope on the Enfield L42 sniper's rifle he'd had fetched from the boot of his car. Owens had strapped a makeshift bomb to the girl. It hung down her chest on black straps, resting against her faintly rounded tummy like a praying mantis. Makeshift, but efficient enough, from what the bomb squad had been able to discern through binoculars, to do the job. Owens was the only member of the group who wasn't either dead or in custody. He guarded the top of the stairway to the cellar and the bunker with its rigged explosives. The child was his protection. One hand held her in a death- grip; the other hand held a detonation device for the bomb she wore. The button on the device was depressed by his spatulate thumb. He had rigged it to detonate if the pressure were relieved, not presented. She was nothing to him but a pawn in his attempt to ensure the mission would not fail.

His eyes were mad. They had the sharp, restless focus of a fanatic. The FWB had conducted suicide missions on previous occasions. A petty group of zealots, small fry in the world of home-grown terrorism, they had slowly made their way out of their native Welsh hills and were pursuing their irrational drive for independence in the perceived capital of oppression itself, London. A group without more than grass-roots support for their cause--and not even much of that for their methods--they nevertheless managed to keep their small ranks filled with unemployed youths fired with twisted ideals of Cymric patriotism and romanticism.

Efen Owens was known to be versed in the building of explosive devices. He was also quite prepared to die in this attempt to free their charismatic leader; of that, Cowley had no doubt. The arrest and conviction of Richard Morgan had taken the sting out of the tail of this group--or so the security forces had thought until this morning. The remaining members of the group wanted Morgan back, and were willing to pay the ultimate cost.

After grabbing the child, Owens had reiterated the original two-hour deadline for Morgan's release that had been initiated when the group had placed the bomb and timer on the bunker. When a phone call from Morgan confirmed, in code, he was free, the hostages would be released.

The problem was that Morgan had been killed in a knife-fight in prison only two days previously. His family had been notified, but they may not have had the time--or, perhaps, had lacked the inclination--to inform this cell of the FWB. Owens had refused to believe the news when Cowley had informed him. He had asked Owens for time so they could show him proof of Morgan's demise, but the man was beyond rational thought. Locked rigid in his purpose, alone and likely feeling himself hedged in by enemies who would concoct any story to stop him, he had stood firm: the bunker would be detonated at 1.35 p.m. precisely. Any attempt to stop him beforehand would result in the child's death.

The head of the bomb squad had curtly informed Cowley they would need at least ten minutes to dismantle the timer--whatever sort it was--on the bunker. Ten minutes was the minimum, and that was pushing it to the wire. An unfortunate turn of phrase.

He checked his watch once more. The time was 1.23.

He had sent Doyle to HQ to start interrogations of the unwounded pair of prisoners. Simmons, too, he had despatched, as back-up to Doyle. Doyle would not interfere in whatever had to be done here, but it was an unnecessary burden to place on the lad, that he should witness this event and have ammunition with which to castigate himself in the aftermath with ruthless intensity for his small part. A waste of energy, and CI5 would need all the energy and focus it would be able to muster in the days that would follow. Simmons was young, almost painfully fresh and eager to do good in the world; he would be no use here, and more to Doyle.

Bodie was nearby, however, a solid and grim presence at his back. Bodie knew. He'd known when Cowley sent Doyle away, understanding showing in the tightening of his mouth and the grimness that settled in his eyes. Not that Doyle hadn't known, too, running his hand through his wild curls when Cowley had issued the terse order, and sending a hard, narrowed look to meet his partner's eyes. Always the pair of them looked first to each other at times like these. A remote part of Cowley's brain envied them that support they found with each other and could always depend on. Tonight, when Doyle fumed and worried and Bodie remembered, they would be together. He, Cowley, would be alone as he struggled to integrate the day's new memories into those of previous dark days already branded into his mind.

Her name was Amalia Sidhu. She was five-and-a-half years old and had a place amongst the bravest people he had known. Was a single child's life worth more than twenty-seven other lives? Can lives be measured on a one-to-one basis? What is the quality, the value, of any single human life? What might this courageous tot achieve when she grew up? To the mother who had spent hours smocking that dress, this child's life was likely valued as more precious than any other on earth. To those who loved the twenty-seven people locked in the bunker--spouses, parents, children, siblings, friends--each of those lives was undoubtedly equally precious.

During the war, decisions that had required the sacrifice of the few for the many had hardly been routine, but they had not been uncommon enough for anyone's peace of mind, either. George Cowley had witnessed such decisions being made during that time. Aye, and he had made those decisions himself more than once during his years in MI6 following the war. This burden was his, by duty and by choice. With fortune, and relatively kinder times, men like Bodie and Doyle and young Simmons might never have to make and execute such a decision.

This time, at any rate, they would not.

He took the burden onto himself, and felt it as heavy as the crude device hanging on the child must feel to her narrow, rounded shoulders. The rifle scope panned over her once more, and he paused to consider the tense, chubby hand clutching the crumpled pink dress. He accepted into himself the knowledge that that hand would linger on the periphery of his mental landscape for the rest of his life. The targeting cross moved up, slowly traversing the detailed smocking to the small, brown arm held painfully high by a large hand whose fingers overlapped themselves around the limb. The scope moved to check that the man's other hand still held the detonation device, the thumb still in place, then moved to centre on Owens' chest. When he was shot, he would fall; it didn't matter where the shot occurred. Head or chest or arm: as soon as the steady pressure he was exerting on the detonator eased, the bomb on the child would explode and both would die. So the experts said. Owens might, depending on how he fell and on the magnitude of the explosion, only be severely wounded. The child, however, would certainly die.

"Sir! We must move now if we're to have a chance of defusing--"

"He knows. Get back." Bodie's voice, deep and harsh and implacable, was like a wall at his back.

He felt the movement behind him pushed away, the air stilling again all around him. No sound, no voices broke the peaceful aura cocooning him in a moment that seemed outside time. Nothing penetrated his senses except the feel of the smooth, cold, metal trigger under his finger and the pressure of the butt of the Enfield snugged against his shoulder and the image of the circular target on the dark-jacketed chest. Some other, detached, part of his brain saw a tiny brown hand clutching pink poplin.

George Cowley's finger tightened fractionally on the trigger, though not enough to release the hammer.

It was now. Or, it was never.


End file.
